Grax-Zar, the Midnight King, Slayer of Champions, Bane of the Sacred Fire, and Master of the Razor Spine Mountains, stalked down the corridors of his stronghold. Every step was like a hammer striking an anvil, sparks skittering across the stones and casting jittering shadows too brief and too faint for any observer to get a true sense of Grax-Zar’s immense and terrible form. No torches were ever lit in these halls. The very stones sucked in the light and thus extinguished all such forms of illumination. He, of course, had no need for light to see by.

Grax-Zar was proud of that bit of magic. Heroes feared the dark, no matter what they might claim, and yielding to fear was the first step towards failure. Most heroes spent immense amounts of time and resources simply to overcome the darkness of his domain. If they’d spent even half as much effort on actually fighting him, they might have stood a chance in defeating him.

Still, not everything was as he’d have it. Not yet, at least. There were always rebellions to quash, prophesies to silence, and heroes to destroy. If those were the only concerns Grax-Zar had to worry about he supposed he wouldn’t mind so much. It was the other things that really ate at him and as he reached the room he’d been striding towards he felt that familiar and oppressive feeling settle down onto his broad shoulders.

He had reached the barracks.

In times of great wars or ascendant heroes, these barracks would be teaming with his minions. Currently they were silent. It was years since he’d last needed to marshal his forces in such vast numbers and so he had done what he always did during these times. He sent them all back to their homes. Or, at least, he sent most of them home. He always kept a few small forces stationed at strategic positions at the base of the mountains but here in his stronghold it was too costly to maintain a large force at all times. Not costly in a monetary manner, but in a far more important way. Soldiers with nothing to do were ripe for dissent and dissatisfaction. No, an idle soldier was far more of a threat to his rule than the most renowned of heroes.

He pushed the door to the barracks open and scowled at what he saw. Piles of unwashed laundry, discarded or otherwise damaged armor and weapons, a few dice and mismatched playing cards littered the table in the middle of the room. Most of the beds were moldy and their padding and blankets were infested with those insects and rodents that enjoyed the company of sleeping humans. He could give all the orders he liked about the importance of cleanliness, of taking pride in ones place of habitation, but it was always the same, filthy result. Perhaps it was the nature of those who would serve him. Perhaps all humans were that way. Grax-Zar hadn’t been human for so long that he couldn’t remember which reason was more plausible.

The trouble with cleaning was that if he hired someone to do it for him, word would invariably get out that his stronghold was unguarded. Even if that didn’t get the attention of every would-be hero in the land, it would spread doubt in the minds of his subjects regarding his might and he had enough rebellions to deal with as it was without him giving them more reasons to try and throw off his rule.

He’d tried just leaving the barracks as they were, since he knew his minions would eventually soil them of their own accord, but that had been a disaster. Apparently, starting out in a dirty environment lead to issues with their moral, but starting fresh and then letting them devolve on their own was fine by them.

Humans made no sense. They didn’t need to, though. All they needed to do was serve him and if that meant Drax-Zar, the Midnight King, Slayer of Champions, Bane of the Sacred Fire, and Master of the Razor Spine Mountains, had to get down off his Throne of Laments and clean out some barracks from time to time then so be it. It wasn’t as though he had some other pressing matters to be attending to any way. The people mostly governed themselves and he had his avatars throughout the land to keep an eye on local events.

“It’s a pity,” Grax-Zar said to the otherwise silent room, “that none of my magics can help me here.”

It was rare indeed for anyone to hear him speak. He often found words to be of little use since most of his interactions with humans were of a martial nature. Even among his allies and servants he found it more efficient to simply impress his will upon their minds rather than telling them what he wanted and then being left to hope they performed their tasks according to his desires.

Those who did hear Drax-Zar speak were often caught off guard by the nature of his voice. They always seemed to assume that his voice would be one of scratching, guttural noises, or perhaps slithering and moist sounding. He could speak like that, of course, much like even some humans could he supposed, but his natural voice was nothing beyond what Drax-Zar would call average. In the early days of his ascension to power he had tried to sound intimidating, had tried to change his voice, or else speak in some manner that would unnerve his enemies. Nowadays he didn’t worry about his voice. It wasn’t his voice that had conquered the Tranquil Valleys. Neither was it his voice that shook the foundations of the Eight Towers of Magic and brought them beneath his sway.

Still, there was the frustrating fact that he had this menial task before him and, as he’d remarked to himself time and again, none of his magics were of any use. He’d once tried conjuring a plague of locusts and flies in the hopes that they would consume all of the abandoned clothes and decaying bed mats but the ensuing chaos resulted in far more than just the detritus being consumed. It was a good thing he had no need to eat since everything organic for miles around was lost to the plague. The one good thing that came of that mistake was that it created the Dead Lands, as they were now known, with his stronghold in their center. Nothing grew in the Dead Lands and so there were no forests to hide approaching armies within, no wild game that could be hunted for food, and made for an all around demoralizing environment for any who would seek to assault Drax-Zar’s stronghold. It also meant that he needed to maintain massive supply lines to maintain his mortal servants within his stronghold.

So it was that, once again, he had the task of cleaning out the barracks. Armful after armful of unpleasant, greasy blankets, bed mats, and old clothes were carried outside from the barracks, to where he had long ago erected a massive stone basin wherein he could burn all of these things. To his followers he said the fires and smoke were a symbol of his celebration over all his past victories. To his enemies, well, they could come up with all sorts of foul reasons for this display. Convenient lies, all of them. It never seemed right to correct any of them. A burning trash pile just outside his front door didn’t seem like a sufficiently dignified or terrifying feature.

The armor and weapons that were beyond repair were similarly discarded in the fire. Any bits of metal that survived the blaze would be scraped out later by a servant and given over to one of his blacksmiths to reforge. The armaments that were still in good repair were taken down to the armory and stored away for later use.

He found letters and other personal items. It always seemed that those who served him started out with a great deal of concern over those things, but that as time passed by, they grew less connected to them. He never cared much for their mementos one way or the other and so he added them to the fire.

The cleaning always took several days. There were dozens of barracks to clean out, not to mention the other parts of the stronghold they used and inhabited. There were kitchens, dining halls, training yards, and all needed to be made ready for whenever he would again need to bolster his defenses.

As Grax-Zar started clearing out the old and rotten food stuffs from the second kitchens, a voice spoke from behind him, coming from the doorway.

“Excuse my intrusion, Master,” the voice spoke with too much tongue flapping. The term ‘slathering’ came to mind.

Grax-Zar lowered his load onto a table and then turned to face the servant.

“Porl,” Grax-Zar said without any hint of surprise, “you have disobeyed me in coming here.”

Porl bowed low and remained bowed as he replied.

“It is also your command that I should notify you of all new prophesies made regarding your downfall.”

Grax-Zar studied Porl for a time, the man still bent over in his sign of obeisance. The man was near the end of his usefulness to Grax-Zar. He was not young enough to be a champion but getting old enough to begin thinking himself wise and start to seriously question Grax-Zar’s actions. Yet Porl was a valuable advisor and had proven himself capable at managing the numerous information networks needed to make sure he found out about all such prophecies before they could get too much traction.

“You have waited before,” Grax-Zar noted, “until I have finished my tasks to bring me your information.”

“This prophecy is more immediate,” Porl said and he chanced a look up into Grax-Zar’s face.

There was something in his expression that Grax-Zar didn’t like. Was it doubt? Desperation? Fear? Did Porl believe this particular prophecy? Or was this not a new prophecy but rather an old one that Porl was only now coming to learn about?

“Speak it and be done,” Grax-Zar commanded at last. He would hear what Porl had to say, and then he would kill the man. That seemed a suitable compromise for Porl’s disobedience.

Emboldened by his masters command, Prol slunk into the kitchen, always cowering and only making furtive glances upward to Grax-Zar’s eyes.

“The people speak this prophecy across your entire domain, master,” Porl began wetly, “yet none can say when it first began. All believe it has been known for years yet there is no record of it and I have only just learned of it myself. How it could have gone on for so long without my noticing I cannot fathom.”

Porl was stalling. That much was obvious to Grax-Zar. Porl had never been exactly a direct man in conversations but he rarely delayed giving information. As his anger flared, so too did his innate magics and the shadows began to twist upon themselves and gain form.

“Speak it!” Grax-Zar shouted when Porl remained silent. He was growing impatient with the man.

Porl shuddered at being yelled at and he cowered down even further as though attempting to hide from the tendril shadows that lapped at his feet.

“They say,” Porl began in a whimper but grew stronger as he spoke, “that your defeat is imminent, and that it will be at the hands of one who serves you.”

Grax-Zar understood at once and he stopped time just around Porl.

There was no prophecy. Poor aging Porl had thought himself wise. He thought he could excuse his interruption, could get close to him, close enough to strike while the stronghold was relatively unguarded and empty. Perhaps he thought he could take Grax-Zar ‘s place? It didn’t matter now.

With a thought, the shadows claimed Porl. All that remained behind was a bone white dagger. Even in the ever present, smothering darkness the dagger managed to give off a faint glow.

Grax-Zar was impressed. He had no idea how Porl had come by such a weapon, but it certainly would have been able to inflict a mortal wound had Porl been given the chance. Unfortunately, Grax-Zar also knew that he likely shouldn’t touch the weapon. These things were often imbued with protections against such handling. He was also bothered by the fact that he didn’t know whether Porl had made the weapon himself or if someone else had procured it for him. Grax-Zar thought the latter was more likely. Porl was a selfish, toad of a man and unlikely to be capable of crafting such a thing.

Grax-Zar let out a heavy sigh and he looked around at the kitchen that still needed cleaning. He had so much more to do before he’d be ready to call back his minions and yet it seemed there were powerful forces already seeking to strike at him. At the same time, it had been a long while since anyone had been able to get this close to him and the prospect of a real challenge intrigued him. It would at least be a nice break from the usual routine.

Leaving the knife where it lay, Grax-Zar resumed cleaning out the kitchen. He’ll let them come to him, let them think that he doesn’t suspect a conspiracy. It will make the task of cleaning all the more interesting as he looks for the signs, for the hints in his other servants. Porl had given away too much when he spoke. They had probably been working on this for years, keeping it quiet among themselves. A secret conclave within his own ranks, seeking his destruction.

Grax-Zar allowed himself a grin. Purging the rot from within his stronghold was a task he could trust to no one else, after all.

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